g face;
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve:
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,
And I their toys to the great children leave:
Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.
THOMSON

In the morning, Valancourt breakfasted with St. Aubert and Emily,
neither of whom seemed much refreshed by sleep. The languor of illness
still hung over St. Aubert, and to Emily's fears his disorder appeared
to be increasing fast upon him. She watched his looks with anxious
affection, and their expression was always faithfully reflected in her
own.

At the commencement of their acquaintance, Valancourt had made known his
name and family. St. Aubert was not a stranger to either, for the
family estates, which were now in the possession of an elder brother of
Valancourt, were little more than twenty miles distant from La
Vallee, and he had sometimes met the elder Valancourt on visits in the
neighbourhood. This knowledge had made him more willingly receive his
present companion; for, though his countenance and manners would have
won him the acquaintance of St. Aubert, who was very apt to trust to the
intelligence of his own eyes, with respect to countenances, he would
not have accepted these, as sufficient introductions to that of his
daughter.

The breakfast was almost as silent as the supper of the preceding night;
but their musing was at length interrupted by the sound of the carriage
wheels, which were to bear away St. Aubert and Emily. Valancourt started
from his chair, and went to the window; it was indeed the carriage, and
he returned to his seat without speaking. The moment was now come when
they must part. St. Aubert told Valancourt, that he hoped he would
never pass La Vallee without favouring him with a visit; and Valancourt,
eagerly thanking him, assured him that he never would; as he said which
he looked timidly at Emily, who tried to smile away the seriousness of
her spirits. They passed a few minutes in interesting conversation,
and St. Aubert then led the way to the carriage, Emily and Valancourt
following in silence. The latter lingered at the door several minutes
after they were seated, and none of the party seemed to have courage
enough to say--Farewell. At length, St. Aubert pronounced the melancholy
word, which Emily passed to Valancourt, who returned it, with a dejected
smile, and the carriage drove on.

The travellers remained, for some time, i